Fields of Blood
by Eye of Sapphire
Summary: It's fair to say that the odds are in the favour of a girl from a family graced with the luck of never having any of its members reaped for any of the past Games. But the Games are a constant reminder that luck will only get you so far.


**Hello. Yes, this fanfiction will contain an OC of mine participating in the 67****th**** Hunger Games. I will stick to canon information about the Hunger Games world. The protagonist of this fic is from District Nine. According to the film, District Nine's focus is grain, so that's what I'll be going with. Despite the fact that this is an OC story, I intend for it to go down every bit as well as fanfics about the canon characters. I really do hope that you enjoy this, as I've put a lot of work into it.**

The Odds

As far as I'm concerned, the odds are probably in my favour. Considering that nobody in my entire family has ever been reaped for the Games, I think I'm safe. It's not like I'll be an exception – I'm pretty standard. I'm not someone who has broken any laws; I am not someone who stands out in the crowd.

That's not to say that I'm not scared. Of course I'm scared, deep down. But I have to stay calm; I have to stay confident and happy. My mother once asked me what fear will do, what it will change. The answer, of course, is nothing. My own emotions will do nothing to change anything. Positive emotions will make things seem better, so they are what I will encourage.

I dunk my head in the water. It's four o'clock in the morning – several hours before the rest of my family (my parents) will be waking up to have their breakfast. I just have to give my hair time to dry. Because it's curly, I can't brush it when it's dry. But then, I don't want to go to the Reaping with wet hair. So the only solution is to wake up early and wash it then.

As I brush through the thick, darker-than-usual auburn curls, I begin to look forward to breakfast. Just like I have for the past three years, I've had the courage to apply for tessera. My family doesn't really need it. That's not to say that we're rich; we always have a little room left in our stomachs after mealtimes, but we're not like the emaciated District Twelve tributes I see every year. It's just that we might as well use our extraordinary luck to get a bit of extra food.

I wash off the gritty soap, and use the family towel to dry myself off. I slip back into the room I share with my parents, and I file through the cupboard to find this year's reaping dress. It's a simple white dress, loose and pretty. It suits me, thankfully.

Sometimes I wonder what outfit I'd be put in for an interview with Caesar Flickerman. I'm grateful that I'm not from District Four – I'd hate to be put in those tacky outfits like the One tributes wear, and I'd be incredibly uncomfortable in the skimpy outfit that Finnick Odair wore. I'd rather be put in one of those hideous coal-miners' outfits that the Twelve tributes wear.

I rub the sleep that avoided the wash out of my hazel eyes. You could call it an olive shade. It's ironic, because my name is Olive. Some people ask me if that's why my parents called me what they did, but most people know that babies are born with blue eyes.

The hours go by, and eventually, I'm sitting at the breakfast table with my parents. Oatmeal. It's always good, considering that the grain comes from the district we live in.

I look like my mother. I have the same sleepy eyes and thick hair as her, but I note that she's an awful lot skinnier than I am.

I have the same attitude as my father. The laughter lines he has didn't appear by chance. We both like to crack a joke, even at the most inappropriate of times.

"Good morning," I say politely.

"Morning," Dad greets me, munching on the more-solid-than-liquid dish.

My mother seems a tad more worried. "It's a big day today," she states.

I nod. "Yup. I'm sure the Careers are partying."

Dad smiles. "They're too serious for that sort of stuff, love."

I grin. "Because they are," I pause and puff myself out in a ridiculous impression of one of last year's District Two tributes, Hammer, "proud to be participating in the Games!"

A ripple of laughs runs around the table comfortingly, and we continue our meal.

"You look beautiful today," Mother compliments me.

I look up. "Thank you," I say warmly.

It looks like she is going to continue. She does. "Good luck, darling."

I drop my wooden spoon, and look at her. So does Dad.

"What?" My lips barely move as I stare at her. She's never said this to me before.

It may seem odd to be so startled by such a statement, but it's difficult to understand if you're not a Winstone. My family have never needed to wish each other good luck, because the odds have always been in our favour.

"Why so serious, honey?" my Dad asks, getting up from his seat and wrapping an arm around my mother's shoulders.

She shrugs, shaking her head dismissively. "It's…nothing. Nothing at all."

We all know that that's not it. A dark part of me knows that she isn't so nonchalant about this year. But it doesn't really register. The concept is so unusual that I haven't quite grasped it yet.

I bite my lip, not wanting to linger in this unfortunate atmosphere for much longer. I stand up.

"Wish me luck," I say, like I always do – but it never meant anything. I kiss my mother on the cheek, and walk straight out of the door.

* * *

The Reaping is a boring ceremony. The only interesting part is the pity I feel for the tributes that always perish, but other than that, it's dull. The escort, Lettie Dalvoi, is a twenty-something woman, a scatterbrained person with a redeeming optimistic nature.

I ignore the propaganda video, but my mind uses the time to drift to something I do not want it to go to at all. Being reaped. Usually, I'd associate the phrase 'being reaped' with its other meanings – death, or, like Lettie reminds us, the reaping of the grain crops of home. But this time, I think about it very seriously. Being reaped.

What would I do? What would my reaction be? Would I cry, or would I laugh? Would I be able to actually accept it, or would I just be in complete amazement like I was when my mother implied it this morning? What's the Capitol like? What are the people like? Would I meet anybody famous? What would the arena be like? Would I die at the Cornucopia?

In an interview, would I emphasise my pride to be from the district that was and is to this moment my home, or would I show my loyalty to my family? Would I tell Caesar of the never-failing luck we've had? Would I crack a joke, would I look pretty? Would I woo the Capitol citizens, or would they find my sense of humour bizarre?

Dust tickles my toes as all of these thoughts run through my head.

The boy tribute's name is read out. I recognise it instantly, and that familiar sinking feeling in my stomach kicks in. I know him. He's eighteen, but he doesn't look it. He's a lanky fellow, with straw-blond hair and the same hazel-coloured eyes that I have. He's quiet, honest, supportive, and friendly. He's called Wheatby Havens. I don't want him to go to the Games, because he's always been nice to me. He laughed at my daring impression of President Snow. But more than anything, I don't want him to go because I know there's absolutely no way he can win.

I block out the pained screams from his family, I turn my head away from the peacekeepers escorting him to the stage. I want nothing more than to hide in the fields of my district. Many would remind me that I could be killed by a harvesting machine, but what difference would it make if I were to be reaped?

I shake my head firmly. There's no way I will be reaped. No. Absolutely not. I must stay optimistic. Snap out of it, Olive.

I notice a deafening silence, and I'm pulled back into the real world by a nudge on my shoulder. It's May Pauls, my friend from school. She's the same age as me, and we make an effort to stand next to each other during the Reaping so we can exchange glances when Lettie does something stupid, so we can laugh at things from previous years.

I look down at her, and my lips spread into a smile, waiting for her to make some sort of remark. But it never comes.

She nudges me again, more urgently. "Go!" she hisses.

I tilt my head in confusion. "What?" I mouth.

She motions to her right. I blink. But then it sets in, because I know what's happened. The unspeakable has happened, the unthinkable has been thought.

I've been reaped.

**So, there we have it. I hope you like it so far. It's quite fast, but I didn't want to linger in Nine for all that long. Just a sidenote, I imagine it to be near Ten. It's pretty flat, and pretty dusty and dry. It gets a lot of tornadoes, at least, I would think so. Any feedback in the form of reviews (whether it's praise or concrit) would be appreciated! Thank you, my lovelies.**


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